


provisions

by TomBowline



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Comeplay, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Fantasizing, Hand Feeding, Hand Jobs, Intercrural Sex, M/M, POV Thomas Jopson, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:27:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28456815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TomBowline/pseuds/TomBowline
Summary: The Captain and his steward, in the clutch of austere circumstances, indulge in a dream of luxury.
Relationships: Francis Crozier/Thomas Jopson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 30





	provisions

Thomas was growing impatient - perhaps that was what caused it, come to think of it, some mental twisting-up made physical. The captain had been at the work of slicking up his thighs to rut between them for maddening minutes now, and he was quite certain they were as slick as they could get. On many another night he would be happy to submit to a long and thorough exploration of his body, but tonight he felt something of wild desperation that made him impatient to be taken, driven into, lifted out of himself and made over into the sole use of pleasure. The day had been long, and he was weary and starved for passion. 

His captain, however, had evidently decided that a more sensual treatment was in order. “So good for me, aren’t you? Look at those hairy little thighs, so tight for me. Christ, lad.” Francis was growling into his ear, punctuating his commentary with a spreading swiping press of his fingers along the thoroughly greased flesh of Thomas’ thighs. 

“Please, sir, I’m ready.” Thomas felt he had been ready all day, through the tense drafty darkness of the workday and the scant yet impassable distance between his fingers and the captain’s on a tea-saucer or a command missive. Now he had those fingers right where he wanted them, and he did not care to wait any longer for what was to follow.

“Hmm.” Francis squeezed the flesh of his thigh, almost a pinch. “Very well, then.” And at last, at last, the torturous slide of Francis’ fingers in the crevice of Thomas’ tensing thighs was replaced by the silky-blunt press of his cockhead—

Thomas’ stomach growled.

Quite dramatically.

The captain froze, prick nearly buried in Thomas’ thighs, an unbearable half-measure. “Have I kept you from your supper, Thomas?” 

He sounded truly worried, hastening Thomas to shake his head. He had gotten his supper, alright - a tin of god-knew-what that he forced down his throat by sheer force of will. The trouble was only that his stomach rather seemed to feel it was not getting its proper due by this meager helping. It was not a source of great discomfort to him - hunger was an old and familiar companion whose sting had been dulled somewhat by long endurance of it - but such involuntary displays of human need could not but be embarrassing to a man so inclined toward reticence. “No, Francis,” he said quickly, wishing for nothing so much as for the subject to be dropped so they could resume their previous activity. “Really, it’s nothing to worry at. I’ve grown quite used to it.” 

He could feel Francis frowning at his back, though he could not see the man. He sighed a bit peevishly, pushed back on the hot line of Francis’ prick, and injected his voice with that irresistible primness that let Francis know he wished to be back in the passionate scene of a moment ago. “Would you please keep fucking me, sir?” 

Francis groaned, a tiny creak of a sound, and stroked over Thomas’ hip. “Very well, then. But we’re not done talking of this,” he added sternly. The effect of authority was diminished somewhat, it must be said, by the eager way he had begun fucking himself between Thomas’ thighs as soon as he was bid to continue. 

They went on in this way - Francis rubbing himself off between Thomas’ soft thighs, Thomas savoring the feeling of being the next best thing to fucked - for some wonderful minutes before the thick quiet of bodies working against each other was broken once more. Francis kissed up Thomas’ neck and set his mouth by Thomas’ ear, and began to murmur in it. “Were we back in London,” with a stroke over the sharp dip of Thomas’ flank down to the flat swell of his hip, “I would keep you in comfort in my home and feed you until you grew quite fat, my dear.”

“Oh,” Thomas sighed, rubbing his thighs together to squeeze at Francis’ prick. He recognized this as the tone of fantasy, not of planning, and so he responded in teasing kind. “ _Quite_ fat, indeed?”

“Aye.” A stutter of Francis’ hips, a spurt of seed from the tip of him seeping wet down Thomas’ thigh. “You’d have anything you wanted. Fine foods to make you soft and round and happy, fine fabrics for your sweet skin.” He tucked his nose into the crook of Thomas’ neck as he spoke, traced the taut cord of muscle with his tongue in lieu of the bite he no doubt wished to leave there. “And I’d lay you down in a fine feather-bed every night and stretch your lovely little arse open on my prick. Should you like that, my boy?”

In reality, Thomas knew, he would not care for such a life - such abject dependence on anyone, even his dear Francis, was to be avoided at any cost. But there at the end of the world, in the great nothingness of besetment with its squalid demanding privations, he found himself unfurling utterly into the fantasy of being so cosseted and indulged. To be fed, clothed, and fucked in the downy and expansive wealth of London, to be tucked away out of view yet with room enough to indulge the enormity of his wants - the idea had a powerful sway over Thomas in that moment. 

“Oh,” he groaned. “I should like it very much, sir.” So much that he felt his heart would overwork itself to cessation if he did not get it, if he were not somehow transported at that very moment to a great light-filled room with a cake-slab of a bed and a shining tray of fine meats and fruits and puddings and Francis, Francis, Francis there to stroke him all through the day and hold him all through the night. Francis with his warm arms, his Atlas-wide back, his soft rolling plain of a chest. His large capable hands— “Would you feed me by hand, do you suppose?”

Francis hissed and snaked one such hand past Thomas’ arm to treat the soft nub of his nipple and the thin pink skin surrounding it with a perfect lack of care. “Naturally.” His hand traveled up, stroking over Thomas’ neck briefly before it settled just at the trembling seam of his lips. “I would peel oranges for you and let you lick the juice from my fingers.” Dipping in, now, Thomas opening his mouth gladly to take his captain’s fingers. “Bites of cake - cream and crumbs all over your lips.” Big broad thumb swiping over Thomas’ lower lip as if to collect errant globs of frosting, then pushing in along with the fingers. “I wouldn’t let you miss a bite, you’d have to lick it all up. Can’t have you going hungry.”

Between Francis’ words setting his ears aflame, Francis’ fingers twining around his tongue, and Francis’ prick sliding wetly over his stones, Thomas was in something of a frenzy. He wished - oh, he wished and wished. But he wished he’d chosen a different position, something that would let him taste it when he made his captain spend. 

“And then,” he began - got lost for a moment in the tantalizing rub of Francis’ cock on his bollocks, just bumping the base of his own prick - collected himself to continue. “When we go to bed each night, you’ll empty your cock in my belly too?” He meant it as a statement, but it came out with a desperate interrogative tilt. 

He could hear the click of Francis’ throat behind him as he barely bit back on an animal groan. “Of course.” He was thrusting faster, now, hands gripping Thomas’ woefully spare flanks. “Of course, my boy. My Thomas. I’ll feed you so well. You’ll be so full of my seed.” His hand slid down to press at Thomas’ belly and stroke over it, careful as an expectant father. “My Thomas. So lovely. My own, my own.” And it was in the midst of this litany, this rough musical susurration like a prayer in Thomas’ ear, that Francis, his Francis, his Captain, drove his hips flush into the slight slope of Thomas’ arse one final time and painted the humid silk-skin inside his thighs with the blessing of seed.

Francis’ hand was quick to find Thomas’ cock then, and his other - his other delved between Thomas’ thighs, swiped up what he had left between them and brought his glazed fingers up to Thomas’ lips again. “Eat, lad,” he whispered - breath hot in Thomas’ ear, cheek unshaven since the morning and bristling on Thomas’ neck, setting his entire body alight. He opened his mouth gladly, chased Francis’ fingers with his tongue, drank down what his captain was giving him. In that moment he felt well cared for indeed - surrounded completely by Francis’ affection and the tender care he had only ever seen him give to another if it were Terror herself, rubbing smooth the boards of his cabin wherever he noticed a roughening or a scar though it was a task far below his station. What a rare gift it was for somebody to work so heedlessly at the love and care of you. 

Francis seemed to be out of grand things to say now, reduced to murmuring sweetness into Thomas’ ear, _My lad, So good, Lovely, lovely Thomas._ This unraveling of the conversational thread, such as it was, was more than made up for by the thick and gratifying taste Thomas was being fed by Francis’ fingers, and by the perfect pull of Francis’ hand upon his cock - just firm enough, just slow enough to drive him wild, just the way Francis had learned that Thomas liked best. Under his captain’s capable hands, Thomas felt himself unspooling rapidly - a jolt in his chest, a fizzing of his blood, an incorrigible twitching of all his muscles at once. All that was left was for Francis to bite at his ear and thumb over his slit and whisper, “Spend for me, love,” and Thomas was falling to a blessed sweaty nothingness as he spurted stripes onto his captain’s eager fist.

He had a soft flannel ready for himself, and one for the captain; had a basin of ice-melt warming by the fire; had a fresh nightshirt for Francis and his own day-clothes folded nicely. In truth, he intended not to dress in more than his long drawers and jumper; he wished, and he believed it would be Francis’ wish as well, to lie still and close with him until he awoke accursedly groggy and crept back to his own little berth. But Francis seemed, once again, to have another idea.

“Oh, Mr Jopson?” Francis fixed him with a significant look - a mischievous parody of command. “I hate to trouble you with redressing so soon, but if you would oblige me - I should like you to visit my private storeroom and fetch back a tin of pears.”

“Pears, sir?”

Francis sighed and smiled faintly. “Yes, pears, darling. It is not so good as a fresh orange or a slice of cake, but I would have you as well-fed as we can manage.”

Thomas smiled back, a look sufficiently both abashed and grateful. “If you insist, sir.”

“Oh, and Thomas? The next time you are going hungry—” Francis frowned, thoughtful. “Well, I know you will not tell me, though I wish you would.” He reached out, barely stretching in the small cabin, and tapped Thomas’ stomach. “I will be listening carefully.”

Thomas caught his captain’s hand and stroked over his knuckles with a touch no less tender for its being so long practiced. “Thank you, Francis.”

**Author's Note:**

> Let's just not think about what the potential consequences of consuming food more quickly than was accounted for would be in the circumstances of this particular voyage.


End file.
